Sparkle Boat

Wednesday, August 31, 2005

The Comfort of Words

My attention has been so focused on the devastation along the Gulf Coast that I feel like my brain has less than its usual space for writing-related thoughts. Still, I find such great comfort in words--they are like a balm to me, so soothing somehow--and so I have been writing and reading a great deal. By reading the news reports, the posts of people on the New Orleans websites asking about their neighborhoods or family members, and writing in this blog, I have found a way to maintain some semblance of equanimity, which is a difficult thing to do in normal times, and even harder when a place you love and the people you love are suffering through such dire times.

And even when I haven't been focused on hurricane-related news or writing, the power of words anchors me. In the last few days I've been working on a copyediting test--still trying to get a job, remember?--and while I was in the middle of it, I just disappeared into the language, into getting the words to sound and look right. I fell into "the zone" and just felt strangely buoyed by my efforts to make language communicate even better, to make the words harmonize. Each time I turned the page of my massive unabridged dictionary, I felt a delicious sense of ease come over me, like I was sure to know all the answers to the questions that had been nagging me. Of course, I realize that this is a somewhat artificial sense of ease--I don't have all the answers now that I've looked up some words any more than I did yesterday, but there is comfort in the endeavor of it--the endeavor to fix something, if but for a moment, if only for one little black word--in a world of impermanence.

Last night, when I was exhausted, I opened a book I've been reading: The Confessions of Max Tivoli, by Andrew Sean Greer. It's fabulous, and though it took a little while for the voice of the narrator to grow on me, I'm so eager to read it now that I pick it up whenever I have a moment. There's comfort in that, knowing that there's a doorway I can open when I need to. It's such a release and such a relief, and, to use this week's inescapable lexicon, it is very much a feeling like a pressure rushing through a broken levee, to open that book. And to see, too, a character who lives through a life of tragedy and several disasters, one of them a catastrophic earthquake, and to do it as we all do, as a human being doing the very best he can.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

The Face of Chaos

Well, I've talked about it figuratively, saying that it's nice to create order, meaning, in the face of chaos. And now the face of Chaos is here, and her name, for now, is Katrina. And this is, as Sept. 11th was, a great test of my belief in the saving power of art. Because of course you can say it's nice to create order out of chaos when the chaos is small, when it's a lost passport, or a fender bender during rush hour, or even the death of a grandparent. But when it's large and awesome, when it reminds us of the delicate, precarious balance our lives rely on, it's much harder to find the purely creative act as an acceptable course of action.

Even though I live in Texas, my best friend in the whole wide world--my soul sister if ever I had one--is one of the hurricane's refugees, taking shelter up in her family's home in North Carolina. Her home is in downtown New Orleans, in the basin of that city's bowl. And now neither she nor I know what has happened to it--whether her belongings--the outward implements of her life--have survived or been cast asunder by wind or rising waters. She is distressed, resigned, frustrated, as am I, as I want to help her and others in N.O. but of course can't. The state of helplessness is not a good place to visit. I've donated money to the Red Cross, and I'm glad I can help financially, but what I really would like to do is help materially--with my time, my talents. I've offered my home to anyone who needs it, and that is something, I suppose, except that no one can take me up on it, and so, again, I feel sort of useless.

And where does the making up of stories fit into the world, currently of Katrina's unmaking? It always feels to me like a dangerous justification when I say that art is essential, even in moments where it is dwarfed by destruction, loss of life, evil or an Act of God. It feels like I am inflating the worth of something that only those in the most privileged moments and circumstances can take advantage of. When you have a comfortable home. A satisfying meal. The time to go beyond survival.

The only real justification that works, I think, is that human emotions are real things, as real as a clapboard home or a light bulb. And those need repair and healing as much as broken windows or broken skin. And when the dust settles, when basic survival is no longer a struggle but once again a given, those emotions are going to need attention, are going to need work. And I still believe that art is one of the few things that can shine a light on the dark inner place where emotions reside, the hot core in a cave that gives us our heat and our power. Art allows us to go inside and check on how everything's working, on whether or not we need a little tune up or a major undertaking. Pass the screwdriver, or, Set up the dynamite.

This reminds me of how important it is, then, at least for me, to ensure that my stories are always working on the level of feeling--for how can you access the emotions of a human being if there is nothing to be felt in your art?--and not just the intellect. I continue to become more and more convinced that a purely intellectual story is an example of beautiful machinery, but that it has ultimately nothing of the human to elevate it beyond a marvel of engineering.

And so, thinking of the importance of emotion and real feeling, and thinking of the people who rely on the artist to help them repair their damaged cores, I will write, and I will write as hard as I can, giving Chaos and Katrina a big fuck you, a resolutely raised middle finger.

Monday, August 29, 2005

The Myth of Inspiration

To stay with the revision thread for a little while longer, I'm thinking of the kinds of writing I do on a daily basis, and how that fits into my schedule. I'm finding that I'm really always writing, some of it just happens to be in my head, and some of it just really uses different parts of my brain/awareness/consciousness.

Revising requires such a different kind of energy than does drafting a new story, and so I find I'm only really able to revise in the morning, while I prefer to write new stuff later at night. I get into new stuff so quickly and so completely that I don't need to have the reserves--my soul can be, as Joyce Carol Oates famously said, "as thin as a playing card," and I can get my ass in the seat for new work. But revising--while it's possible for me to force myself into it--is a much harder endeavor, and requires my best concentration and energy.

So my schedule has become split this way--I have so much old work that needs attention, and so much new work that I've just finished or am in the process of drafting--really, this prolific period is a blessing, but when to get to all that needs to be done!--and I'm revising in the morning, living my life in between, and then writing at the end of the day.

That in between part though, still finds me in the process of thinking, even unconsciously, about the work I'm doing. I think this is why it's so important to stay in the middle of writing--you never give your unconscious mind a chance to drift away--and so you're more likely to stay with it, to find the solutions to the problems that are driving you mad, and to be ready to write the scene you never thought you could write. It's an old cliche to talk about marathons, but if your writing career is the longest, hardest and greatest run you'll ever take, than it is absolutely essential to stay trained, to be ready at every mile marker to go further.

I write while I'm cooking, while I'm drifting off to sleep, even when I'm drunk--it's just always there, so why not tinker with it?

With my schedule in place, I'm getting more and more into process, and really enjoying the small steps along the way. I'm not so impatient any more to just see something done. I know things will get done, but as I've said before, pushing onward against chaos, even in the tiniest increments, is getting to be its own reward.

Inspiration is a myth. It's not that it doesn't exist--it does--but it's not what gets books written. A good schedule is inspiration's--and a book's--best handmaiden.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Write With Your Ears

I've been revising today, and as I was re-reading the story, something remarkable happened: I had a Eureka! moment. Praise be to the writing gods.

It was a funny thing--I was reading my story out loud, which I don't often do (even though I recommend it to my own students), because I know how something your eyes run right over will jump out and strangle you if you're reading aloud--and while I did catch some clunkers and errors, the important thing that happened was that I began to recognize patterns.

Thematic patterns, tonal patterns, pacing patterns--it was glorious. Because now, I see the patterns and know even more clearly what this story is about, and, more importantly, what it needs. Strangely enough, by hearing the story, I can now see it so clearly, almost concretely. I see the structure, I see blocks of language needing this or that. Amazing. Maybe it gives some credence to people who take off their sunglasses when someone is talking to them? I wonder: Exactly how closely linked is our sense of hearing with our sense of sight?

And I don't think I could have discovered these things by just reading silently. Therefore, I will now take my own advice and always read drafts aloud. And I will now count my ears and my sense of hearing as essential writing equipment. (And I will continue to recommend this method to my students, but now as a true believer.) Hallelujah!

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Animals Eat Each Other

Here is a writing exercise I did while at the Tin House Writer's Conference. Ron Carlson was my workshop leader, and he told us to write a story using each letter of the alphabet to start the story. He also mandated that one sentence be exactly 100 words and one sentence be one word. This is what came out, and while it is an unedited first draft, I hope to turn it into something that looks more like a real story. In the meantime, here is what I have. It was fun to write, and I hope it is just as fun to read.


Animals Eat Each Other

Animals eat each other, which is really strange if you really think about it, and I do think about things like this, especially now that I have gone beyond basic cable and have every possible nature program available to man, like Animal Planet-which, you may be surprised to learn, Earth is not-more like the Bacteria Planet, but anyway-it's where you can watch shows depicting all manner of food chain carnage: the doomed bunny flying over the earth in the eagle's claws, not dead yet, but certainly taking its first and last flight, or the struggling zebra being eaten by lions.

Basically, the expanded cable menu has changed my life. Changing channels just isn't the same any more, and instead of zoning out to whatever's on, now I'm in control, and loving every minute of it. Deciding what to watch is the only problem now, and sometimes it takes me a good hour or so to finally choose my evening lineup. Eventually, though, I always return to those nature shows. Figuring that I'm never going to make it to Botswana or Costa Rica or Tierra del Fuego-I mean, come on, no one can afford that stuff, except rich assholes like my boss-and why would I want to go to places full of rich assholes?-I watch the shows and take couch safaris, remote in one hand and a freshly brewed latte in the other, courtesy of the sweet little espresso machine I ordered off the Home Shopping Network.

Grace sometimes comes over-she's the upstairs neighbor, and sometimes I think the surround sound noises of lions mauling wildebeests makes her feel lonely-and usually, I make her a latte, and we get close on the couch, watching animals either eat each other or have sex, which I have to admit can get pretty awkward at times. Having her here makes me feel good though, and always makes me happy that I upgraded my cable. I think she's coming over tonight, actually, since it's Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, which is one of television's all-time programming highlights-a whole week of sharks!-and when I told Grace about it earlier, she said maybe she'd come down, her little dangly earrings swaying as she spoke.

Just last week, though, something different happened between us, and instead of the usual light cuddling and kissing, we really got into it, or should I say, she really got into it, like I'd never seen before, and all I can think is since we were watching When Animals Attack that she got an idea or some inspiration, but whatever the reason, I was totally into it. Kind of intense, that girl, and I think she said she's a proofreader, so maybe it makes sense, all that pent up energy needing to go somewhere, but to tell you the truth, she got so into it she actually bit me, and I was like, whoa, that's intense, maybe you've been watching too much nature programming.

Later on, after she left, I went to the mirror to look at where she bit me, and I pulled the collar of my t-shirt away from my neck, and besides seeing that I desperately needed to shave, which my hotel call center job doesn't really require, but come on, you know when you've passed scruffy into grizzled, I also saw the arc of red imprints left by her little teeth, like a half circle of embroidery.

Man, did that give me a boner.

No girl had ever bit me hard enough to leave marks before, and I felt like this was progress, that Grace and I were going to finally have sex, and before I knew it, I was attacking my own animal, ha ha. Pretty soon after that, Grace invited me up to her apartment, a first, and I was actually really happy, and nervous, since her place was like the total opposite of mine, and all I could think of was how many times she'd seen my place and she was in a place like this, a nice place, with framed pictures, and a file cabinet, and a couch with coordinated pillows and a bookcase, and she never said anything about how shitty my place was, not once, which once I saw her place, I have to say I really appreciated.

Quietly, we stood there, and I could tell she was nervous, and I kept flipping the nickel that was in my pocket, because I was nervous too, until she finally asked me if I wanted to see her photo album, which surprisingly, I did. Red with gold-edged pages, her photo album balanced on both of our knees, light on mine at first and then heavier as she flipped pages, and we looked at a trip she had taken with her mother to Paris, and photos of her holding up various foreign foods in their places of origin: crumpets in London, and a croissant that she held up in front of the Eiffel Tower, framing it like the croissant was its foundation.

Shortly after that, we started kissing, right after seeing a photo she had taken of herself lying on the grass of some park in London, which was the best photo ever, somehow, and she looked really beautiful, and peaceful, and I told her that.

That was a week ago, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about Grace, and even my excitement about Shark Week has been partly due to me envisioning Grace on the couch with me while we watch sharks go crazy over blood in the water. Unbelievable.

Very soon, she'll be here, and so I think I'll straighten this place up a little, maybe make some espresso so we can stay up all night. Xavier, my buddy, says I'm getting whipped. You could call it that, I guess, but I just like this girl, this girl who bit me, who tried to eat me.

Zebras are on TV right now, and they're strange creatures, man-they never learn how to avoid getting eaten, but look at them, they never seem too worried about it.

Friday, August 12, 2005

The Murderball Lesson

A few nights ago, my honey and I went to see that new documentary called Murderball. In case you haven't heard of it, it's about quadriplegics who play rugby at a very high level of competition. I.e. the Paralympics, World Championships, etc.

It's a great film, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Was absolutely riveted in fact, and lost myself numerous times in the experiences and personalities portrayed on the screen. Afterwards, I told my fiance how much I enjoyed it, and he said someting along the lines of, "Yeah, but it didn't look very good." (He notices this kind of thing as a graphic artist.)

I thought about it for a second, and discovered he was right. Visually, the directing style left a lot to be desired, and just the film quality in and of itself was pretty mediocre. It did look like someone had shot it on a fairly inexpensive digital camera. But what I realized was this: I didn't notice. Not really.

I mean, once I thought about it, sure. But what was doing it for me was the story--the narrative arc dealing with the rivalry between the US and Canada--and the characters--the strong and absolutely compelling personalities of the documentary's subjects.

My point with all this is to say that there's a literary analogue here, and it's one that I often forget but need to remember every time I sit down to write. The lesson is simply this: People care first about story, character. Aesthetic beauty is important, but secondary. So everytime I fall in love with the language, with the melodious sound of a word, I need to pull back. I need to think, Hey, have I done all I can to make the story interesting? Have I made sure these characters are real, are sympathetic? Because without these things, a piece of prose, beautiful as it may be, is empty, hollow, soulless. It becomes artifice, not art. Art must always have soul. It must always be alive.

I always talk about how hard it is to write, especially when I'm striving for art. But maybe, in some ways, I'm making it harder than it needs to be. Because as long as it's living on the page, and the reader is there, well, heck, you're more than halfway there.

I may be waxing too poetic here, and I'll probably regret saying this later when I read it again, but it seems to me that life--and here I'm talking in both senses--biologically and the metaphor that covers our daily behaviors and activities--is art. In other words, when we consider that art has to be alive, anything that is alive must have elements of art. Can this be true, or am I in logical fallacy territory? I'm not entirely sure, but it's something interesting that I intend to consider.

Whether you buy the above (possible) hokum or not, go see Murderball. See if you're not utterly transfixed, if you're able to resist leaving yourself and entering into the story and the characters, feeling along with them, feeling totally alive.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Back to the Blog

So, it's been a while since last I've blogged, and I have to say, I've missed it. Part of it was the fact that I was finishing up my MFA, moving, and now, looking for a job while planning a wedding and trying to keep up with my writing.

Still, I'm back now, and I think the first order of business is to discuss how the end of the MFA program seems to me now, a few months out. The first, most obvious thing I notice is the lack of concern for the writer / artist in our society, and how wonderful it was to have people all around me who cared about writing and language just as much as I did. It was just taken for granted that we all loved to write, that it was important, and that it was necessary. Out here in the cold, heartless real world, I get confused stares all the time, and a line of questioning that always focuses on, Now what are you going to do with that? or Why are you even doing it? What's the point?

Sigh.

I think the main challenge in this, my post-MFA era, is to remember that there are communities all over the country where people care about language and story, and that if I'm writing for myself and the handful of people like myself, so be it. I didn't begin writing for fame or fortune. I began to write to make sense of the world, to try to enlarge my human experience as I endeavored to understand it, and to hopefully, someday, reach other people who take succor from the well-rendered and carefully detailed stories about how people experience their lives, their struggles and their ineffable moments of happiness that give life its sacred aspect.

I'm working pretty much every day now, revising and writing new stuff, and trying to find an audience by sending things out to literary magazines. I'm intrigued by my newfound discipline, which I did not have before the MFA. I know how to get my ass in the chair now, and I know how to sit there and create a little every day. What's so satisfying is that I am making something new everyday, and while some of it really stinks, how many people can truly say: In the face of chaos, in a universe full of entropy, I created today.